


To Hell With Rings

by Ancalime1



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, F/M, Femslash, Gen, M/M, Parody, Slash, very au and very non-canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-05-31 08:04:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6462403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ancalime1/pseuds/Ancalime1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A blasphemous crack-fic that tracks the events of the Fellowship and the War of the Ring. Extremely AU. Shenanigans and slash pairings abound.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wizard Slumber Party

Chapter One: Wizard Slumber Party. In which Uncle Bilbo departs on an essential quest to Took-Mart for birthday party-favors, leaving poor Frodo to hold down the fort. 

* * *

 

Bag-End felt very much like a fortress of sorts when Uncle Bilbo went out.

It all started with the visitation of the notorious Sackville-Bagginses, an experience that motivated young Master Frodo to invest in both a number of different padlocks and a series of incognito cameras. The Sackvilles, you see, were a crafty folk. They would wait until Mister Bilbo went out, knowing full well that Bag-End would be left in the care of his helpless ninny-of-a-nephew. And when the hour was ripe, they would swoop in like a gaggle of portly vultures and pilfer the various treasures that lay about the little home. 

This time Uncle Bilbo had left on a matter of great importance: His eleventy-first birthday was but a few calender days away, and the need to fetch party-favors was at hand. So he buttoned up his little jacket, combed his foot-hairs, and departed for Took-Mart®. 

Not ten minutes had elapsed, and already poor Frodo had found himself in the most unfortunate of pickles. His body was adorned with an armor that consisted entirely of kitchen utensils, and his face was smeared with strawberry jam (it is a little known fact that strawberry jam may function as a menacing sort of war-paint, as well as a tasty snack). Little known facts aside, young Master Frodo was preparing for the most intense afternoon of his life. 

He started at the sound of the brass knocker against the door. In a simpler time, he would have picked himself up and greeted his guest with cheerful, hobbit-ey enthusiasm. Now, his initial instinct was to dive into the cellar and wait until the Sackville-Bagginses had purged the house of anything remotely of value. However, he could not act on that instinct either—instead, he thought it better to survey the security cameras first, to ensure that the visitor wasn’t just some errant sales-hobbit or the like.

But neither Sackville nor sales-hobbit was to be found on the doorstep that morning. Rather, a tall bearded man clad entirely in gray could be seen hunched on the stoop, waiting patiently at the rounded door. In his hand he wielded a twisted walking stick; on his head was perched a curious pointed hat. 

Frodo squinted at the camera footage. He’d never seen a man of his like before—indeed, men scarcely traveled through the Shire as it was. He concluded that the fellow on the doorstep was most likely lost, and in need of some direction. So he grudgingly made his way to the dreaded door (still garbed in jam and kitchen instruments, if you recall), and greeted his stray visitor.

The old gray fellow raised his eyebrows at the hobbit’s ungainly appearance, but wisely said nothing of it. “Good morning,” he said, tipping his hat. “Would you be able to point me in the direction of the nearest gas station? I’m afraid my carriage has run dry.”

“There are no gas stations in the Shire,” replied Frodo. “We hobbits rarely ever venture out of doors. And when we do, we stuff our faces with protein bars and never travel anywhere further than a mile.”

“Alas. What a shame,” said the man, in a voice that suggested that it wasn’t really a shame at all. “Can I bother you for a place to stay tonight? It’s been a long journey, and, well, my old limbs are tired.”

Frodo hesitated. Like most hobbits, he wasn’t all too pleased with unexpected company—company which could very well be a Sackville hoax as a means to penetrate Bag-End. But even if the situation was no-Sackvilles-attached, what would Uncle Bilbo say? “For Eru’s sake, Frodo! I leave for twenty minutes, and already you’ve gone and let a vagrant into the house.” The very thought of it made the poor young Frodo shudder.

But alas, hobbits are notorious for being cursed with two inherent perils: the first being a predisposal to diabetes, and the second being the incessant nagging of a guilty conscious. So it was only natural that he would feel bad for the old hat, and eventually, he obliged.“Is your carriage very far, then?” he asked.

“It’s stopped right outside, actually. A happy coincidence.”

“Indeed,” muttered Frodo. “Have you any luggage?”

“Ah, yes! Fireworks, I’d forgotten about the fireworks. Say, would you mind putting a kettle on? I’ll be back in a jiffy.” 

Frodo was too vexed at the moment to be bothered with the dangerous idea of fireworks being brought into the house. He scanned the yard for any Sackville activity, and retired into the kitchen. Grumbling to himself, he prepared the tea kettle for his guest, shed his ridiculous cutlery-and-jam attire, and slumped into a nearby armchair. He supposed he’d have to reschedule drinks with the lads tonight, considering he now had a guest to entertain. 

To Frodo’s dismay, the wizened man had returned—with Uncle Bilbo at his side. Well, at least he wouldn’t have to introduce him now, though he would’ve liked to have hidden his visitor’s explosive cargo before his uncle had arrived.

“Ah, Uncle Bilbo!” exclaimed Frodo, heralding the elder hobbit. “I see you’ve met our guest, Mister, um…” Drat! He’d forgotten to ask for a name.

“Gandalf,” supplied his grocery-burdened uncle. “Yes, we know each other quite well. And you, Master Frodo, should know quite well that we know each other quite well. Why, I’ve only told you the story of the Lonely Mountain a billion times.”

“Yes, Bilbo,” replied an exasperated Frodo, who had decided to disregard his uncle’s redundant use of the words ‘quite’ and ‘well.’ “Though, in my defense, your stories are decidedly boring, and have caused me to fall asleep on numerous accounts.” 

“Pah! You have the attention span of a goldfish,” sniffed Bilbo. “Gandalf, old mate—has my wayward nephew been any decent? Has he put the kettle on for you?’

“He has,” said Gandalf, with a smile. “I do believe that all hobbits are equipped with at least a fraction of decency.”

“Not the Sackvilles,” huffed Frodo. “They’re as venomous as adders, and every bit as ugly.”

Gandalf, who hadn’t the slightest inkling as to who the Sackvilles were, could only smile in polite confusion. He then turned his attention to Bilbo, who had busied himself with the plastic-bound party favors. “Remind me again, dear Bilbo. What year are you turning?”

Bilbo looked up from his mound of party-favors. “Eleventy-One,” he boasted. “Tell me Gandalf, have you ever met an old hobbit who was filled with such vigor?”

“Yes, I think I have,” said Gandalf, stroking his beard. “Your grandfather, the Old Took. Docile as a dungheap, I’d say, until he went on that cocaine-spree and acted completely batshit for a week.” 

Both Bilbo and Frodo proceeded to stare at Gandalf with identical astonishment. “He died almost immediately,” added the wizard, as if this would clear up any misunderstandings.

“Well I never,” sputtered Bilbo at long last. 

“I’ll say,” choked Master Frodo.

“Indeed,” concurred the old wizard. “Say, is the water almost ready? And do you happen to have any Earl Grey?”


	2. The Most Unpronounceable Age Ever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Two: The Most Unpronounceable Age Ever. In which a birthday is celebrated, and our intrepid heroes get splendidly drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the reviews, everyone! And sorry about the wait—I had just introduced Merry and Pippin when my creativity ran out. (No, I have not yet concocted any meaningful sort of plot, in case you were wondering. And yes, I am aware that this makes the quality of the piece all the more questionable). That being said, this chapter is basically just filler until I can get things moving.
> 
> Another thing: Implied sex (but not the real stuff), drunken tomfoolery, and hints of slash ahead! If you don’t like that sort of thing, I strongly advise you to find a more canonically respectful fanfic.

The day of Bilbo Baggins’ eleventy-first birthday had finally arrived, and all of Hobbiton was prepared to celebrate. Balloons and streamers littered every yard and pasture, and the big Party Tree drooped beneath the weight of myriad ornaments and corny light fixtures. But the most important cargo had only just arrived: a truckload of ale, which Frodo deemed was enough to get every hobbit west of the Brandywine sufficiently drunk. 

Bilbo had presently engaged himself in hearty conversation with the two truck drivers, a pair of cheeky lads who were probably best described as Ambiguously Homosexual Hobbits™ (or ‘AHH’ for short. Coincidentally ‘AHH’ also happens to be a type of sound often emitted in the bedroom). That is to say, the two were involved in a relationship of extraordinary (but not explicit) closeness, and made disputably romantic gestures to each other every five minutes. 

One of the hobbits, whose name was Merry Brandybuck, presented Bilbo with a clipboard. The other hobbit, Pippin Took (a distant relative of the Bagginses), had already helped himself to the ale as a means of “preemptive celebration.” 

“Thank you again for shipping this on such short notice,” said Bilbo, signing his name on the clipboard. “Will you be staying for the party this evening? I’m eleventy-one today, you know.”

“Eleventy-one, you say?” said Pippin between gulps of ale. “Why, you’re giving the Old Took quite a run for his money, Bilbo!”

“Er, indeed,” replied Bilbo. At the mention of the name, he exchanged an uneasy glance with his nephew. Frodo shuddered as an image of the withered old hobbit barged into his mind, casually snorting a line of cocaine. He shook his head and dismissed the thought at once.

“We’d be delighted to stay,” said Merry, blissfully unaware of the discomfort that now sprouted amongst uncle and nephew. He turned to his debatable partner. “But first, the ale. Pippin, get up off your ass and help me un—”

“Undress?” cut in Pippin. “Perhaps we ought to get a room first.”

“No,” replied a red-faced Merry. “I mean, yes, a room would be ideal, but not until later. I was going to say ‘ _ unload  _ the rest of the ale,’ you slimy bastard.”

 

The party began around dusk. Hobbits danced around the Party Tree, Gandalf produced a spectacular display of his fireworks, and Merry and Pippin managed to find a suitable room. And that’s nothing to say of the copious amounts of alcohol and pipeweed that were consumed; Bilbo, Gandalf, and Frodo had each indulged a bit too much, and had taken to babbling inanely amongst themselves.

“Well of course I have a child,” said Gandalf in response to no one in particular. He furrowed his brow in drunken concentration. “What was her name again? Started with a ‘J,’ I think. Galadriel, probably.”

“That doesn’t starts with a ‘J,’ Gannalf,” hiccuped Frodo matter-of-factly, a strand of drool trickling down his chin.

Bilbo nodded his head in somber yet meaningless agreement. “I once had a pet fish,” he said, a distant look in his eyes. “I don’t think he liked me.”

“Uncle Biblo… thass so sad.”

“I know, lad. I know.”

And while Bilbo and his nephew were bonding over some unimportant and/or uninteresting fish, Gandalf was still puzzling over the name of his alleged daughter.

“Aredhel… Andreth… Arwen… Debbie…”

“Debbie sounds promising,” put in Bilbo.

“No, I don’t think so. It definnly starts with a ‘J.’” And then his jaw clamped shut, and his eyes widened with Archimedes-like wonder. “I’ve got it,” he squawked at last. “ Lúthien. That’s her name.”

“Glandalf. That doesent start with a ‘J’ either,” said an impatiently inebriated Frodo.

But the sozzled old wizard ignored him. “Aye, s’a little known fact that she’s my dotter,” he said, to the interest and belief of absolutely no one. “Most people think it’s old Thingol who was the father. I mean, can you ‘magine? Just where d’ya think she gets ‘er good looks from, eh?”

At this point, Frodo decided he had quite had his fill of stupid, ludicrous wizard-lies. But just as he was about to get up, he crashed into an approaching hobbit, a plumpish fellow with… well, since Frodo was exceedingly drunk, the correct descriptors for this new character seemed to escape his tongue. But really, we all know that that’s a load of bullshit, and the real reason is that the writer is just too lazy to provide the necessary adjectives to describe such a hobbit. (She has also taken to referring to herself in the third person, but that’s entirely besides the point). To put it simply, ‘plumpish’ would have to suffice.

Frodo, however, needed only to squint through his drunken and nondescript haze before recognizing his new companion. “Well, I’ll be Sammed!” he gurgled. “It’s Damn-wise Gamgee!”

The hobbit in question, Master Samwise Gamgee, reddened at the butchering of his name. “Er, yes, Mr. Frodo,” he replied in a reasonably sober voice. “Sorry to bump into you like that, sir. It’s just, the rest of the hobbits, they’re lookin’ for Mr. Bilbo, see.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” belched Bilbo from somewhere beside Frodo. “Wha’ do… what’re they lookin’ for?”

“Well, Mr. Bilbo, they want you to perform a speech,” said Sam uncomfortably. It couldn’t have been more ill-timed for the old hobbit to become so horrendously drunk; but then again, it scarcely mattered, seeing as the rest of Hobbiton was about as equally intoxicated. 

“A speech, eh? Well, I’ll give ‘em a speech,” replied Bilbo, cracking his knuckles. He balled his fists and strode over in like an inebriated rooster to the Party Tree, where most of the guests had flocked. He produced a microphone from God-knows-where, at once acquiring the attention of every hobbit present. “Lissen here, you lot,” he said gruffly. “Today’s my one-eleventh-and-a-hundredy-first birthday.”

Below, his audience cheered and vomited in drunken approval. 

“That’s right,” crowed Bilbo from his place under the Party Tree. “An’ I gotta say… I don’t like you half as well as you should know, and I deserve less than half of you as I should like.”

More mindless praise in the forms of cheering and vomiting.

“So what I’m tryna say is… what I’m tryna say… well, I think y’all can go and screw yurselves. Especially you,  _ Suck _ -ville Bagginses,” concluded Bilbo eloquently. “Yeah, that’s right,  _ Suck- _ villes, I never did like you. Always stealin’ my silverware and my magazines. Y'know, the ones with the scantily clad barmaids.”

The Sackvilles guffawed and slapped their knees from somewhere down below, not the slightest bit aware that they’d just been insulted by a wrinkly old scumbag. 

“So anyways, I’m outta here. Blammo. Oh yeah, and also if you have any questions, comments, concerns, go talk to my nephew ‘cause he’s stupid and actually cares about what you guys think. Okay? Okay. Biblo out.”

And with that, he produced a ring from his jacket-pocket, slipped it on his finger, and disappeared from sight… but not before tripping over a tree-root and blacking out.


	3. A Shortcut to MacGuffins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Three: A Shortcut to MacGuffins. In which Gandalf reveals a Deadly Secret™, and Frodo receives his most demanding task since high school.

Hours had passed before anyone was able to locate the body of Bilbo Baggins. Of course, such a feat would have been considerably easier if said body was not invisible. Thankfully the wizard Gandalf had procured a set of night vision goggles, and the more sobered party-goers were able to recover the unconscious old hobbit and put him to bed. 

Apparently none had thought it shrewd to question how he had disappeared in the first place. On the one hand, most of the Shirelings were just too hammered to care. But other hobbits, shocked though they were, thought it unwise to dwell on the subject for very long. After all, Mr. Bilbo already had quite the uncanny reputation, and they decided it best not to provoke him.

Samwise Gamgee, however, would not stand for such nonsense. It was unnatural, he thought, even for a Baggins—and he swore on his old Gaffer that he would get to the bottom of Mr. Bilbo’s plot through and through. So he ditched the party and stole away to the gardens of Bag-End, and threw himself into the flower-beds beneath the parlor window.

Peering over the sill, he nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw Gandalf pacing tirelessly within the parlor. Sam, like most hobbits, had a keen dislike of strangers. Thus it was only natural that the mere sight of the old wizard scattered all his courage, and he made to get up and leave. But the sudden thumping noise and the groggy voice of Mr. Bilbo compelled him to stay.

“Feeling better?” Asked Gandalf pleasantly. “You put on quite a show, my friend.”

“Confound it, Gandalf,” growled Bilbo. He slapped a hand to his forehead and muttered, “I should be halfway to Bree by now.”

“Get a cab,” said Gandalf. “I’m afraid they tend to avoid the Shire because of the lack of gas stations, but I daresay you’ll be able to find one in Bree.”

“Fine,” grumbled Bilbo. “Gandalf, be a love and put some coffee on. I need to pack.” 

“As you wish,” replied the wizard passively. “Anything else?”

“Well, yes,” said Bilbo, who had begun to stuff provisions into a great rucksack. “Can I bother you to keep an eye on Frodo? I’m afraid the lad’s a bit paranoid—he may think the Sackvilles have gone and kidnapped me or something.” 

“Perhaps you ought to have said goodbye to him, then.”

“You know I’m rubbish at good-byes,” said Bilbo irritably. Then in a lower voice he added, “I’m leaving everything with him, you know. Well, except for the magazines with the scantily-clad barmaids. Those I’ll keep.” 

At that, poor Sam to began to gag a little, which in turn nearly compromised his hiding place. 

“Oh, naturally,” replied Gandalf from his place by the coffee pot. “Is that it, then?”

Bilbo patted his jacket pocket and smiled. “No, it isn’t. I had meant to give my old ring to Frodo, but I have decided to keep it for ambiguously sinister reasons. You understand, don’t you?”

“Oh yes,” said Gandalf. “Why, ‘Ambiguously Sinister’ is my middle name. Now, would you prefer your coffee in a travel mug?”

“With this headache, I think I’ll take the whole pot,” muttered Bilbo. “Thank you, Gandalf. Take care.”

“Safe travels, Bilbo. Remember to boil your water before drinking it. And don’t eat strange berries. And also, I know hobbits don’t like wearing shoes, but if there’s Poison Ivy around—”

“Don’t tell me how to adventure, Gandalf,” cut in Bilbo. “Besides, you and I both know that something  _ must  _ go amiss in the wilderness in order for the plot to advance.”

“Perhaps,” said Gandalf. “But this isn’t _The_ _Hobbit_ anymore, Bilbo. We can’t afford to focus on conflicts from your perspective any longer.”

Bilbo sighed. “You make me sound like a disposable side character.”

“Side character yes, disposable no. We still need to meet you in Rivendell, after all. Now do be gone, my dear friend—you are wasting valuable screen-space.” 

The sound of a slamming door followed, and then came the _ clunk  _ of a walking stick against pavement. Sam ducked beneath the pink heads of the Baggins’ peonies, and watched Mr. Bilbo fumble his way down the path. He wondered just how safe it was for a hungover old hobbit to be journeying across the Shire, but decided that that was no business of his. Once more he got up to leave, when the door slammed a second time. Mr. Frodo emerged into the parlor, looking even more withered than his uncle. 

Gandalf’s brow shot up in surprise. “Where have you been? It’s almost morning.”

“I think I passed out during Bilbo’s speech,” murmured Frodo. “Did I miss anything important?” 

“Well, it’s funny that you should ask that,” said Gandalf. “You just missed your uncle, actually.”

Frodo’s eyes widened to the size of cricket balls. “You mean he’s gone?” 

“Yes. Did he not tell you he was leaving?”

“Well, no,” stammered Frodo. “I mean, I know he had joked about moving to a retirement home in Rivendell, but I didn’t think he’d actually do it!”

“And without a proper good-bye, no less,” tsked the old wizard. “But that, rude though it was, is of little importance. Upon leaving, he left Bag-End and all of its possessions to you.”

“You can’t be serious,” choked Frodo. “All of them?”

“All of them.”

“Even his magazines featuring scantily-clad barmaids?” Asked Frodo incredulously.

“Er, no. Those he kept,” said Gandalf grimly. “Between you and me, Frodo, your Uncle has some rather unsavory interests. And that reminds me—” he paused and rummaged around inside his wizard-pockets and offered Frodo a rather unremarkable gold ring. “He’s also left you with this.”

“Bilbo’s ring,” breathed Frodo. “Yes, I suppose that also qualifies as an ‘unsavory interest.’ I can’t believe he’s actually giving me this thing—I had thought he was obsessed.”

“Yes, well, that is also between you and me,” said Gandalf. “He didn’t actually give it to you. I pick-pocketed him while he was knocked out, and I swapped it with my wedding band.”

“Hang on. Wedding band? You’re  _ married _ ?”

“Wrong again,” sighed Gandalf. “I acquired it from King Thingol, because I had the hots for his wife and thought he was an impertinent and undeserving asshole. I’ll have you know that I am an excellent pick-pocket,” he added.

“Well, that’s… I don’t really know how to respond to that,” admitted Frodo. “Er, thank you, I guess? For stealing Bilbo’s ring, I mean. Though I’m not entirely sure why you did it, or why I’m even thanking you.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t,” advised Gandalf. “The Ring that you hold in your hands is what is known as a MacGuffin, forged by the Dark Lord himself. It is a virtually useless object that will nonetheless cause you great strife, and henceforth drive the entire plotline of this ludicrous story.”

“Gandalf, no offense, but that doesn’t make a bit of sense,” said Frodo sheepishly. “What does it all mean? And what in the Shire is a MacGuffin?”

“Frodo, I literally just told you what a MacGuffin is. You need to clean out your ears, my boy.” The wizard sighed and then added, “This Ring is a particularly powerful MacGuffin, and I suspect that the servants of the Enemy will be searching for it. As such, it cannot stay in the Shire for much longer. That is where you come in, my dear Frodo. You must take the MacGuffin away from here; I suspect it will be safe in Rivendell, for the time being.”

“What?” cried Frodo. “Why me? Why can’t you take it?”

“Well, for starters, hobbits are incredibly harmless creatures. If, say, this Ring were to corrupt you (which it most certainly will), the worst thing that you could do is turn into a perverted and obsessive old hobbit (see Bilbo). However, if  _ I  _ were to be corrupted, I would almost definitely become Sauron’s greatest and most powerful bitch.”

“I think you are taking far too much advantage of my race,” said Frodo bitterly. “Rivendell, huh? I suppose that isn’t so bad. Perhaps I’ll be able to see Uncle Bilbo again.”

“Yes, perhaps you’ll be able to see your repulsively wanton uncle again,” agreed Gandalf. “In the meantime, I must videochat with the Head of my Order. He is a literary master, and knows how to properly dispose of convenient plot devices like MacGuffins. Once I have finished, I shall meet you at the Inn of the Prancing Pony.”

“You’ll  _ meet  _ me? What, does this inn not have WiFi or something?”

“No. No it does not. The Shire, despite all its modern-shortcomings, has wonderful wireless. I shall remain here until my chat is complete.”

“Well, I suppose I ought to get packing, then,” sighed Frodo. “Though I must admit that I’m a little nervous. I mean, I’ve never ventured outside the Shire before, and I’ve certainly never travelled alone. But I suppose that if Bilbo can do it, then so can I.” 

In the meantime, Master Samwise was plotting a quiet means of escape. He reckoned that anymore of this unearthly MacGuffin-talk would turn him loony, and he longed very suddenly for his armchair by the fire, and a mug of cold ale. But as he got up to leave, he smacked his head against the windowsill and fell gracelessly back into the flowerbeds. This, to his dismay, had caught both the attention of Frodo and the old wizard.

“Well! It seems I have found you a companion,” boomed Gandalf. He strode over to the window and fished through the flower beds until his hands found the collar of Sam’s jacket. The poor hobbit was instantly hauled up through the window and thrown unceremoniously to the floor. “Samwise Gamgee! Are you aware that you have just witnessed a conversation containing key story-exposition?”

“N-no sir,” stammered Samwise, scrambling to his feet. “I mean, I have no idea what story-exposition is. Or what a MacGuffin is. Or what a scantily-clad barmaid looks like. Please sir, I just wanted to see if Mr. Bilbo was all right—but I take it he isn’t, so I guess I’ll just be going now.”

Sam began to edge towards the door, but the old wizard barred his way. “Nice try, Master Gamgee, but you’ve really stepped in it this time,” he said impishly. “Frodo has a Ring to deliver, and he needs a friend. Are you up for the task?”

“Have I even got a choice?” muttered Sam.

“Oh, come on, Sam. If I’m going to play the reluctant hero, than I’ll be needing a reluctant sidekick,” said Frodo, clapping a hand to his friend’s back. 

“Can’t you handle being reluctant by yourself?” protested Sam. 

“Well, yeah,” said Frodo, shoving his hands into his pockets. “But it’s a lot more lonely that way. Come on—It’ll be just like camping, only a lot more mobile, since we’ll be walking a lot… all the time… because there are no gas stations in the Shire….” His voice trailed off weakly, and he clapped a hand to his brow. “Valar, that sounds awful,” he muttered.

“My sentiments exactly,” huffed Sam. 

“Oh, come off it,” said Gandalf. “A little exercise never hurt anyone. Now get packing, you lazy lot, and do be off. This is a  _ private  _ video chat, mind you, and I can’t have little hobbits loitering about when there’s a perfectly good plotline to advance.”

“Somehow, I managed to inherit a house and become homeless all in one day,” sighed Frodo. He turned to his fellow hobbit. “Well, come on Sam. Let’s get packing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well gee, Frodo, why don’t you just catch a lift from the Eagles or something? Lazy Bastard.  
> This wasn’t a very funny chapter—sorry! It’ll pick from here, and the hobbits will finally leave the Shire in the next Chapter.  
> Read and Review, folks!


	4. In Which Tom Bombadil is Heartily Ignored

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Four: In Which Tom Bombadil is Heartily Ignored. Frodo and Sam hitch a ride with Merry and Pippin and interact with shady inn-goers at the Prancing Pony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Four is finally here! It’s the longest one yet, and frankly I’m surprised I got it up as soon as I did (what with my impending finals. Ugh). That being said, I don’t think I can promise another chapter until late May, when things have finally calmed down. Thanks for your patience, everyone! :)

“So, are you going to tell me how you are just letting some old codger kick you out of your own home?”

The two hobbits had been walking for quite some time now, stopping only once for coffee and breakfast(s) at the Green Dragon Café in Bywater. It was about midday when they had reached the threshold of the East Farthing, and Samwise had only just plucked up the courage to demand an explanation of his companion.

“Well… because I have to deliver this MacGuffin to Rivendell,” said Frodo lamely. “It’s, um, evil. It can’t stay in the Shire.” He was aware that the quantity of alcohol he had consumed that evening could very well have influenced his decision to leave Bag-End—but he neglected to admit this to Samwise.

“And why couldn’t this Gandalf-fellow deliver it?” prompted Sam. “Or Bilbo? I mean, he was heading to Rivendell anyways.”

“Bilbo is an addict,” explained Frodo. “He wouldn’t very well give the Ring to me, never mind hand it over to these Rivendell-folk. And as for Gandalf…” He paused and tapped his chin, trying to recall the wizard’s excuse. “Well, admittedly I don’t really remember. Something about ‘corruption’ and becoming ‘Sauron’s right-hand bitch,’ I think.”

Samwise, however, remained unconvinced. “I dunno, Mr. Frodo. Something about this stinks. I mean, sending two poor hobbits off to strange lands to deliver some… evil muffin or whatever. The thought of it!”

“MacGuffin,” corrected Frodo. “It’s called a MacGuffin.”

“‘MacGuffin’ sounds like the thing I had for breakfast,” said Sam pointedly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Frodo—I don’t mean to push you or anything. I just think that that old wizard ought to be troubling some bigger folk with this quest of his, and leave us hobbits out of it.”

Frodo didn’t respond. At the present, he was still relatively hungover and immensely tired, and therefore hadn’t put much thought into the whole situation. And while he greatly appreciated Master Samwise’s input, he was beginning to sound rather like a fretful helicopter-parent.

Neither hobbit spoke to each other for quite sometime after that. They had just reached the Marish (that is, the boggy region of the Shire), when they heard a whizzing noise like that of an automobile.

“Funny that, a car in the Shire,” observed Frodo. “Poor fellows must be lost. There’s nary a gas station around here.” 

But the noise persisted, gradually developing into a dull roar. In the distance, Frodo could just make out the outlines of a rather large truck bearing the TookMart® logo. It was in this moment that the heavens opened from above, and somewhere a chorus of short and hairy-footed angels burst into glorious song. Such things tend to happen when Frodo is conveniently struck with a brilliant idea.

“Take heart, Sam,” he said, clapping his friend on the back. “It would appear that our hike is over.”

Sam squinted at the sky. “What do you mean? I don’t see any eagles.”

“What? No, not eagles! Why would you even say that?” He grabbed Sam by the shoulders and faced him towards the oncoming vehicle. “Look, it’s Merry and Pippin’s truck! They must be heading back to Buckland from the party. Let’s see if we can flag them down.”

And so the two hobbits launched themselves into the road and began to jump and flap their arms hysterically, performing any sort of maneuver to catch the attention of Merry and Pippin. They managed to stop the truck eventually, but not without making perfect fools of themselves and looking somewhat like a pair of jacked-up roosters. 

A bewildered Merry poked his head out from the window of the driver’s seat. “Hallo!” he called. “Fancy meeting you two out here. Look sharp, Pip—Sam and Frodo need a lift.”

“Oh, do they now?” said Pippin, peeping his head next to Merry’s. “We’ve been looking for you all morning, you know. What, are goodbyes no longer in fashion?”

“It’s a long story,” muttered Frodo as he hauled himself into the vehicle. He raised an eyebrow when he found the other two hobbits stacked on top of one another like weird kinky pancakes, with Merry on the bottom and a pantsless Pippin on the top. But to Frodo’s immense relief, the bottom portion of Pippin’s body was completely obscured by pixels, courtesy of this fanfiction’s rating and the author’s very own aversion towards dicks.

“Oh, you’ll have to sit on each other,” advised the semi-censored Pippin from his place in Merry’s lap. “Normally we’d stuff you in the back, but this gives me a good excuse to get on top of—”

“Thank you, Pippin, sir,” cut in Sam irritably. “Er, let me go first, Mr. Frodo. You oughtn’t have to sit underneath me.”

“Back to Hobbiton, then?” came Merry’s voice from somewhere beneath Pippin.  

“Er, Bree actually,” replied Frodo as he awkwardly settled on top of Samwise. “We’re supposed to be meeting Gandalf at some inn called ‘The Prancing Pony.’ Ever heard of it?”

“Never,” said a muffled Merry, shoving his keys back into the ignition. “Thank the Valar for GPS.”

 

Unsurprisingly, driving to Bree cut down the trip time significantly—a feat which gave even the Eagles a run for their money. The only drawback was the stereo, which seemed incapable of emitting any musical artist who wasn’t Tom Bombadil. 

Bombadil himself was something of a local favorite, though to the hobbits he seemed little more than an unintelligible lyricist and talentless banjo player. But since he was the only musician that was broadcasted in the regions of the Marish and the Old Forest, the poor hobbits simply had to cope with the unpalatable Bombadil Bluegrass.

“I swear, Mr. Frodo—if I hear one more ‘hey dol’ or ‘merry dol,” I’m going to throw myself out the window,” muttered Sam. “Doesn’t this asshole have anything else to sing about?”

“Relax, Sam,” said a now fully-clothed Pippin. “We’re almost out of both the proverbial and literal woods.”

“And then we’ll be in Breeland?” asked Frodo hopefully.

“Er, no. We’ve still got the Barrow-downs to cross.” 

“But aren’t there zombies in the Barrow-downs?” 

Pippin tapped his chin thoughtfully. “You know, I can’t rightly remember. Say Merry, do we still have those peashooters in the back?”

“Peashooters aren’t going to off a zombie!” cried Sam, aghast.

Pippin shrugged. “Then we’d better not run into any zombies, I guess.”

They were nearing the thresholds of the Old Forest now, the clusters of trees gradually thinning out into a series of bleak and stone-studded moors. Then, for some inexplicable reason, the radio began to crackle and pop with static, and the voice of Tom Bombadil was promptly replaced by the theme of Michael Myers. 

“Well, I never thought I’d miss the sound of Bluegrass so much,” sighed Sam.

The truck full of hobbits doggedly plodded on through the downs. Merry, despite being completely submerged in Pippin’s trousers, was an expert navigator; every time a stray tombstone or mausoleum appeared, he would swerve the vehicle away just in time. Now and again a throng of bats and unholy spirits would assail the windows, but they were no match for the combined powers of windshield wipers and inertia. They managed to escape the Barrow-downs largely unscathed, with just a few bat carcasses and human finger bones dangling from the bumper. The Michael Myers tune had ceased as well, signifying their arrival in Breeland.

“And we didn’t even have to bust out the peashooters,” said Pippin, grinning smugly.

“I’ll bust out your peashooter, soon as we get to that inn,” crowed Merry.

“Oh, you  _ bad  _ hobbit!” 

From his place on top of Sam, Frodo shuddered with discomfort. If only Gandalf had never given him the MacGuffin! Then perhaps he would be home in bed, giving no thought to Bombadil, Barrow-downs, or Merry and Pippin’s atrocious sex-banter. 

“In one mile, turn left onto Fatty Lumpkin Lane. The destination will be on your right,” came the cool voice of the GPS. 

“About time, too,” said Merry, directing the truck along the cobble streets of Bree. “You know, it’s a bit funny—I never realized how small our truck is.”

This was true: the old TookMart® truck was designed specifically for hobbits, which made for an odd look when driving alongside standard-proportioned vehicles. 

“That reminds me,” piped up Sam from underneath Frodo. “I’ve been meaning to ask you guys: If there aren’t any gas stations in the Shire, then how is this thing powered?”

Pippin (and probably Merry) grinned. “Love,” they replied in unison, twining their fingers together. Sam groaned and rolled his eyes.

“You have arrived,” announced the GPS. And so they had: Before them stood the seediest looking tavern they had ever laid eyes on, which isn’t saying a whole lot because hobbit taverns generally look like they belong in “Better Homes and Gardens” magazines. Here, a bright yellow light filtered through the cracks of the wood-planked walls, and on the roof sat a chimney that belched a column of smoke into the evening sky. The hobbits exchanged dubious glances with one another, then hastily parked the truck and trudged towards the inn.

“Pip and I figure that we’ll stay the night here at the  _ Pony _ ,” said Merry as they pushed through the doorway. “And then it’s back to Buckland for us in the morning. When you see him, make sure to give old Gandalf our regards.”

“Well, suppose Mr. Gandalf hasn’t gotten here yet,” put in Samwise. “I mean, I don’t think he had counted on us driving to Bree. What do we do then?”

“We wait for him, obviously,” said Frodo. “Look, let’s just get checked in for now. I figured we might not meet him straight away, so I packed some emergency romcoms and popcorn just in case.”

This seemed to cheer Sam up a little—and good thing too, because Gandalf’s precise whereabouts were unknown, just as they had expected.

Merry and Pippin had gone ahead to their room, presumably to engage in certain acts of  Wanton Debauchery. In the meantime, Frodo and Sam remained in the tavern sipping draughts of mead and discussing what was to happen next.

“So… soon’s we meet Mr. Gandalf, we’ll set out for Rivendell?” 

“That’s the plan,” said  Frodo, raising a tankard to his lips.

Sam sighed. “I’ve got to be honest, Mr. Frodo—I don’t entirely understand this whole Macguffin-thing. How is it evil, exactly? Does something bad happen if you put it on?”

Frodo opened his mouth as if to answer, and then paused. “I don’t actually know,” he admitted. “I thought I’d ask Gandalf as soon as he’d gotten here. Up to this point, I’ve kind of just been passively doing his will.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Frodo, I hope you don’t me saying, but I really think you ought to be more assertive. You can’t just let that wizard walk all over you.”

Sam, as per usual, was absolutely right. But something had come over Frodo just then, causing him to clench his teeth and abandon his placidity. “I know what I have to do, Sam,” he snapped very suddenly. “You don’t understand. The Macguffin was entrusted to me. It’s my task, mine, my own!”

This, however, did very little to ruffle Sam. “You don’t even know what it does,” he said pointedly. 

While they quarreled, the two hobbits were steadily gaining the attentions of the other inn-goers. They thought it amusing to see the little folk bicker back and forth, just as a parent might with one wayward teen. 

Among the onlookers was another, a cloaked figure whose face was concealed by hood and shadow. But the hobbits had not yet taken notice of their observer, nor of any of the  _ Pony’s  _ guests at any rate. Yet this particular fellow had taken an apparent interest in the hobbits, and continued to evaluate their dealings.

“Oh, sod this,” growled Frodo, getting to his feet. “Have it your own way. You can sit here and speculate about this Ambiguously Evil Ring—I’m gonna go back to the room and watch  _ She’s All That.  _ Of course, you’re welcome to  join me when you’re done being a preachy, self-important git.”

This of course would have been an incredibly effective and dramatic exit, had Master Frodo not tripped over the table leg upon leaving. But this happens to be a mishap of necessity, because the plot needs a quick and convenient way for Frodo to fall and unintentionally catch the Ring with his finger. 

It was in this very moment that Frodo vanished from sight, prompting a collective stage-gasp from everyone in the tavern. Sam had of course seen this all before (refer back to Bilbo’s disappearance in Chapter Two if need be), and his first instinct was to go and collect his invisible master. But the cloaked fellow beat him to it. 

As soon as Frodo had loosed the Ring from his finger, a gruff pair of hands seized him by the shoulders and yanked him out of the tavern. “You draw far too much attention to yourself, Frodo Baggins,” hissed the hooded figure. And without another word, he was marched down the main hallway like a disobedient child and thrust into a room that must have been neglected by the housekeepers. Granules of dust could be seen floating about in the orange candlelight, and in every nook and cranny was a silver-spun cobweb. A series of squeaks and scuttling noises suggested the presence of either mice or rats. In short, this place violated just about every health code known to man. 

Frodo, however, was much too afraid to point all this out to his abductor, and had instead settled for cowering on the floor. After a period of silence, the figure finally said, “Er, you’re supposed to say ‘Who are you, and what do you want?’” 

“ _ Excuse me _ ?”

“Oh come on,” huffed the figure. “I’ve been practicing what I was gonna say to you all night long, so can you maybe just humor me and say the damned line?”

“Um, okay, I guess,” said Frodo. “Uh, ‘who are you and what do you want?’” 

“A little more caution from you. That is no trinket you carry,” recited the figure with gusto. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” spluttered Frodo.

“Indeed.” The figure then proceeded to extinguish the candles, an action which really only served to maximize dramatic effect. “I can avoid being seen if I wish. But to disappear entirely, that is a rare gift.” With that, the figure cast the hood from its head with unreasonable epicness, and behold! Before Frodo stood not a man, but a scraggly, rough-and-tumble elvish lass. 

“My name is Arwen,” said the elf. “But I’m afraid that’s all I can offer in terms of formalities. You see, your little punk-ass is being hunted, and we need to get you out of here.”

“Hunted?” croaked Frodo.

“Yes, hunted,” said Arwen. “What you did back there wasn’t exactly what I’d call discreet. You—” 

“ _ Oi! _ ” interrupted a familiar voice. The door was thrown open, and silhouetted against the light of the hallway was one extremely vehement Samwise. “You let him go, or you and me are gonna have a good old-fashioned brawl,” he spat at Arwen. 

“Good to meet you too,” sniffed Arwen. 

“Uh, it’s all right, Sam,” stuttered Frodo. “At least, I think so, anyways.”

“Not remotely,” countered Arwen. “We need to get you out of here. You carry the One Macguffin, Frodo Baggins, and they are coming for it. You can know longer wait for a wizard.”

“Wizard? Do you know Gandalf?” 

“That’s a story for another time,” said Arwen. “Wake your friends. We’ll need to leave Bree as quickly as possible. Hurry!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the title: No, I don’t hate Tom Bomba—okay, yes I do. I won’t even pretend to understand why he exists in the first place. Forgive me, O Merciful Tolkien. I have sinned.  
> As for Arwen, I wasn’t expecting her to turn up either. If I’m being honest with myself, I wasn’t too pleased with her character in either the books OR the films (except for that one scene in Fellowship. Bless that scene). So here we have my rendition of Arwen, an elf of roguish charm and a flair for the dramatic. You’re welcome.


End file.
